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CoQVdLl
/f70~7(
**3
Soothing, pulsating, boiling
Enclosed and in nood of escape
yiy lovo surgos forth as rising
Wator against a dam, soarching
Dosporatoly for a crack in tho wall.
A solf-mado wall
Unknowingly my own doing
Cutting myself off from you.
Grey billowing clouds darken our land
dust from tho war chariot's bosom
Chariots flame through tho sky
Dropping dow drops of death
Suddenly my love finds that crack.
It plunges as a torrent from a broken dam
Onto the meadow of your heart,
Ihon it is over and all is quiet,
Ify only hopo is that your hoart is loft
A green meadow with blossoming flowers,
—darlono chaddock
If...
Wo stand by muttering
it always must bo
thoso things cannot change
ovor and over
ropititious rationalization
When will wo tiro of our idiocy?
Death's spectre crouches gleefully
licking hungry chops
whilo sniffing downwind
anticipating search and dostroy orders
from tho generals
Blood stains tho oarth
Said tho stom to its rose,
"I wish you would bo yellow
Instoad of rod,
Yollow is so much oasior on the eyes',1 mingling xd.th poison gasos
in a cacophony of chaos
Said tho red rose,
"I'm ovor so sorry,
I can't chango my color,
I'll always be rod,"
Ropliod the stem,
"If you won't change,
I'll bond until you die,"
Ropliod tho rose,
"I can't change,
.•.Bht I no^d you."
our self-rightoous idoologios
turn against us
lukewarm patriotism and
conventional wisdom
in a swirling cyclono of stupidity
spread a blankot of blight,
—marjorio rusche
"Ah^ said tho stem,"then you will chango for meJ"
"No,,,whatever I am, that I must bo,,,"
So tho stom bont.
And tho rose died.
And thon tho stem died,
Ono "if" too many,
—joey
DIDN#T HEAR YA!
Not now,
I'm busy.
Call somo othor day.
Sorry, tho lino's doad
Ho loft yostorday,
—chris pincombo
THIS IS
COEVAL
I T
IS ALIVE
Thoso words can rush through your mind in confusing disordFor like
a crowd of milling people accomplishing littlo, or thoy may entrench thorn-
solves as tho so^ds of the flowers and trees of life within your boing.
You condition tho soil into which the seeds fall, Tho sprouts and fruits
resulting from your efforts are your rewards. Again you aro dealing with
lives, those in thoso pages and your own. Dig in, , , .

CoQVdLl
/f70~7(
**3
Soothing, pulsating, boiling
Enclosed and in nood of escape
yiy lovo surgos forth as rising
Wator against a dam, soarching
Dosporatoly for a crack in tho wall.
A solf-mado wall
Unknowingly my own doing
Cutting myself off from you.
Grey billowing clouds darken our land
dust from tho war chariot's bosom
Chariots flame through tho sky
Dropping dow drops of death
Suddenly my love finds that crack.
It plunges as a torrent from a broken dam
Onto the meadow of your heart,
Ihon it is over and all is quiet,
Ify only hopo is that your hoart is loft
A green meadow with blossoming flowers,
—darlono chaddock
If...
Wo stand by muttering
it always must bo
thoso things cannot change
ovor and over
ropititious rationalization
When will wo tiro of our idiocy?
Death's spectre crouches gleefully
licking hungry chops
whilo sniffing downwind
anticipating search and dostroy orders
from tho generals
Blood stains tho oarth
Said tho stom to its rose,
"I wish you would bo yellow
Instoad of rod,
Yollow is so much oasior on the eyes',1 mingling xd.th poison gasos
in a cacophony of chaos
Said tho red rose,
"I'm ovor so sorry,
I can't chango my color,
I'll always be rod,"
Ropliod the stem,
"If you won't change,
I'll bond until you die,"
Ropliod tho rose,
"I can't change,
.•.Bht I no^d you."
our self-rightoous idoologios
turn against us
lukewarm patriotism and
conventional wisdom
in a swirling cyclono of stupidity
spread a blankot of blight,
—marjorio rusche
"Ah^ said tho stem,"then you will chango for meJ"
"No,,,whatever I am, that I must bo,,,"
So tho stom bont.
And tho rose died.
And thon tho stem died,
Ono "if" too many,
—joey
DIDN#T HEAR YA!
Not now,
I'm busy.
Call somo othor day.
Sorry, tho lino's doad
Ho loft yostorday,
—chris pincombo
THIS IS
COEVAL
I T
IS ALIVE
Thoso words can rush through your mind in confusing disordFor like
a crowd of milling people accomplishing littlo, or thoy may entrench thorn-
solves as tho so^ds of the flowers and trees of life within your boing.
You condition tho soil into which the seeds fall, Tho sprouts and fruits
resulting from your efforts are your rewards. Again you aro dealing with
lives, those in thoso pages and your own. Dig in, , , .